After a decade together, Semra Dedic and her husband Ulf are preparing for their biggest change yet: becoming parents. As they wait for the arrival of their first child, she reflects on the long road here – a journey marked by years of longing, resilience, and hope.
The road here has been long. For six years, we lived with the ache of longing for a child, years filled with hope, grief, anxiety, strength, disappointment, and love. Years of fumbling in the dark for something we knew was there but couldn’t reach. And years of standing back up, holding each other tightly, and loving a little deeper each time. The journey was anything but straight. It tested us in ways we could never have imagined, but it never broke us. On the contrary, it made us stronger, preparing us for the greatest gift of all: to become parents.
Our IVF process began in 2021, after the doctors told us everything looked fine on paper. But still, month after month, nothing happened. We endured several failed transfers and a traumatic surgery to remove a uterine polyp, one where the anesthesia failed and I was left awake in terrible pain. That experience left deep scars, both physical and emotional. By March 2024 we had reached our final state-funded IVF attempt. Seven eggs were retrieved, six fertilized, three became blastocysts. We transferred two, but it ended in another miscarriage. Only one embryo was left frozen.
At that point, I was ready to give up. But a close friend told me about the Carl von Linné Clinic in Uppsala, and from the first phone call I felt hope return. They spoke to me with warmth and conviction, telling me I would become a mother. For the first time in a long time, I trusted the process again.
When we began treatment with them, everything felt different. We had one doctor throughout the journey, and the treatment plan was tailored just for us. On transfer day, we saw our embryo on the screen. They called it a “diamond embryo,” and I knew instantly: This is our baby. Two weeks later, the test showed positive. Two clear lines. Ulf and I stood in the kitchen holding each other in silence, the loudest, most beautiful silence I have ever known.
Through all of this I have learned to never ignore my intuition, to stand up for my body and my feelings even when dismissed, to allow myself to pause, to rest, to cry. I’ve learned that hope is stubborn, and that our greatest victory is that we never stopped fighting together.
Outside of this journey, I work as a senior PR consultant at SpoilConcept, a job I truly love. But right now I am on maternity leave, something that feels surreal to say. During this time, I’m also working on a deeply personal and creative project that I’ll share in 2026.
Home is incredibly important to me. It needs to feel alive, to reflect who we are. Ulf has built so much with his own hands, our dining table, coffee table, headboard, even the kitchen wall in a deep forest green. Every detail carries a story, something we’ve created together with passion and love. That is what makes it home.
Life right now is full of anticipation, preparing for the birth and wondering who we are about to meet. We recently did a birthing class at home, and it opened a space of deep trust for both me and Ulf. At the same time, I carry thoughts of my new project, something close to my heart that I hope will resonate with others.
On weekends, our rhythm is slow. I rise first, make breakfast, and later Ulf wakes to music and pancakes. We stroll through the neighborhood, buy pastries, have lunch in the city, and decide between cooking at home or visiting our favourite restaurant. When we host friends, we cook Serbian burek or Chilean empanadas, play 60s and 70s music, and talk late into the night, conversations that range from laughter to life’s deepest struggles.
I feel my best when I’m close to the people I love, when I move my body and breathe in nature, or when I sit alone in the quiet with my journal. I also long to return to pottery, to shaping something beautiful with my hands. Stillness, reflection, and honest connection are what I depend on most.
One of the experiences that shaped me most was losing my mother when I was 14. She died of cancer after two years of illness, leaving me and my little sister to grow up far too quickly. That grief made me more present, more aware of what really matters. Losing her was like losing a part of myself, but it also shaped the person I am today.
What I fear most is losing someone I love, a fear that feels sharper now that I am about to become a mother. I also fear not living fully, missing out on what is true for me. It has taken time to admit that I don’t always need to be strong, that I can allow myself to fall and let others carry me.
Our IVF journey has taught me more about myself than anything else. It showed me how much courage I have, and that strength doesn’t always roar, sometimes it is just a whisper: Try again. Don’t give up.
What I most want to share is that it’s okay to be complex, to carry both joy and sorrow at once. Life isn’t linear. It doesn’t always go as planned, but sometimes the detours turn out more beautiful than anything we could have imagined. And above all, women’s intuition matters. When your body speaks, it’s real. Listen.
I would recommend seeking out a medium or energy work if you feel stuck, it gave me courage. Reflexology, too, is a wonderful way to release blockages in the body. And books that have moved me deeply include Grief Is the Thing with Feathers by Max Porter, and The Year of Magical Thinking and Blue Nights by Joan Didion.
Most of all, I recommend the Carl von Linné Clinic in Uppsala. They changed my life.
